


Heretic Pride

by Taattosbt



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Discussions and Portrayals of Abusive Relationships, F/F, F/M, John Darnielle - Freeform, Mountain Goats, Transgender Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taattosbt/pseuds/Taattosbt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is about a man in a mutually destructive relationship realizing it may not be as good as he thought; and a woman in a mutually destructive relationship who is in love with someone else; and another woman dependent on a friend in a mutually destructive relationship coming into her own; and another man who just got out of a mutually destructive relationship who directs plays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sax Rohmer #1

SAX ROHMER #1 - 

FRESH BLOOD, RADICALISM, AND TRIUMPH

Tallahassee (the debut offering of Rosalie Sully, an American musician-cum-writer) is, by definition, a bad opera. It is also the best thing to hit the Palais Garnier’s stage in years.   
The low budget, off-night production is the first in the opera house’s new “avant-garde” season. Management claims the season is to give a chance to new operas and composers. In this reviewers opinion it is also a chance to make a buck selling seats to cheap productions.   
Tallahassee stars four ballet/chorus members. Their voices are nice, but inexperienced, the set is non-existent, the costumes out of the actor’s closets, and the dance a mish-mash of true ballet and everything from acrobatics to combat. It breaks every rule and I love every minute of it. The rough edges and the raw young performers bring the bare-bones music and uncomfortable script to life in a way a polished production never could.   
The story follows the “alpha couple” as they move to a run down house in the eponymous town. Theatre is full of lovers and the obstacles they overcome. I’ve seen lover’s overcoming harsh parents, feuding families, uncaring societies, unjust justice, and malevolent gods. Tallahassee offers two lovers overcoming each other for the sake of their love. A woman and a man (unnamed in the show and listed in the program as the “alpha female” and “alpha male” respectively) arrive in town to an unfurnished house/stage. They populate the emptiness with a sofa, chairs, mattress, and an ashtray, while singing about the end-of-their-rope circumstances that brought them there. They proceed to enact a train wreck; two people so desperately in love they ruin each other. The mood shifts from manic joy, to looming dread, to contented resignation, to raging hatred, to ecstatic mutual destruction, all accompanied by a few guitars, some drums, and a piano.   
Josee Bonnet and Betrand Houtem deliver visceral performances as the leads. They brush up against the melodrama of the plot (and for all it’s strong points it can be melodramatic as the players sing of drowning together “hand in unlovable hand”) without losing the gut wrenching reality of their situation. Though swept under the rug by polite society, I am willing to bet that every person reading this article has either experienced or witnessed a relationship wherein, in the words of director Charles Cushman, “both parties have realized that the person [they] want to sing all [their] love songs to, is also the person [they] want to destroy.”  
Cushman is a fresh face from America. True to the stereotypes of his birthplace, the young man flouts all tradition. In our brief interview, Mr. Cushman detailed his vision of theatre: “the purpose of theatre is to exhilarate. However possible. Anything, any reaction—joy, disgust, awe, fear, laughter—that is the aim. Because big reactions means people are going to think about it.” I certainly will be. And, love it or hate, Tallahassee will stick with you. Forget the prima donnas and prima ballerinas this director is the new rising star to watch out for.   
Tallahassee runs 2 hours long. Evening performances Sunday through Wednesday. Tickets available from the Palais Garnier box-office. Limited seating on and around the stage (Cushman closed off much of the auditorium to achieve an intimate mood). Stars: Josee Bonnet, Bertrand Houtem, Thorsten Fournier, and Hennie Van Der Aart. Writer/composer: Rosalie Sully. Director: Charles Saunders Cushman.  
Erik read the months old article again that night because of what happened at the masquerade. Surrounded by a terrified audience and sitting on the steps in Erik’s shadow, Charles Cushman read the script of Don Juan Triumphant.


	2. San Bernardino

Charles was a slender figure stranded in the vastness of the Palais Garnier’s stage. He matched his surroundings. He was a small man, though that may have been an effect of the cavernous stage. His hair stuck out at odd angles from the frequent combing of Charles’ fingers. His drab and wrinkled coat mirrored the clutter of sets pressed against the back wall and the scuffed and dusty boards beneath his feet. He belonged there.  
“So what’s my budget?” He called to the nothingness. Utilitarian.  
The outburst startle Erik ever so slightly. He had not noticed Fermin and Andre, the producers, enter. They seemed surprised as well. Charles continued regardless, “For Don Juan. What’s the budget?” He spun around. “Here’s a hint: low ball it. Good things come on shoe strings.”  
That wasn’t right. The script called for a set. An elaborate one. And, though they weren’t explicitly demanded, costumes fitting the characters were assumed. A low budget would never do.  
Andre spoke first. “We thought…” He addressed his partner in a glance. “8,000 francs.”  
Charles sucked air through his upper teeth and lower lip. The sound was thunderous in the acoustics of the Palais Garnier. “I’ll do it on less.” He shook himself and added in after thought: “Thank you, though.”  
Erik liked this eccentric director less and less.   
Charles dangled his legs off the stage corner before jumping down to the audience level. “I want Meg Giry to choreograph it.”  
“Did you give me the wrong time just for that revelation?” The woman in question called from the door. She swept down the center aisle with a grace that betrayed her parentage.  
“I’ve never been so precise in my life.” Charles blustered and then gave in to what seemed to be an ingrained self deprecation coupled with a most-unfortunately-ingrained laid-back-attitude. “I gave you the wrong time because I forgot the time.”   
Fermin piped up, “Madame Giry Senior is the usual choice of choreographer—“  
“And she is already working on two other productions this season.” Charles spoke over him. “I want Meg and the Maestro herself is overworked… you should give them both a raise” He added under his breath.   
From his vantage point in the boxes Erik could just see Meg Giry’s sharp glare. Then, because his attention was caught, he saw Charles Cushman’s chastened but nonetheless cheeky flash of a smile.   
“Fine.” Andre conceded. He spent too much breath on the vowel. He sounded haughty and defeated. Erik suppressed a chuckle. Andre waved Fermin down as he was about to speak. “We can discuss the details later. We just wanted to be sure—“  
“You are going to direct it?” Fermin finished the question. He cast “it” as a thing of disgust.  
“He is.” Meg affirmed.  
Charles smiled. “I assure you, gentlemen, I am.” He spread his arms and spun to the house and stage at once. “This. Is the most interesting thing to come along in a while.” Erik may have imagined it, but that prideful newcomer perhaps stopped for half a second before box #5.  
At least he gave some indication of knowing his place.  
The producers said their adieus. The younger Giry tugged Cushman’s attention from the stage. “Would you like to go to Haricot Manquant?”  
The coffee house—Haricot Manquant—was the favored haunt of the apprentice ballerinas, singers, and musicians. Charles took one last look at the stage. “Yes. Best to start early.”  
Meg glanced away and back in an instant. “Not to talk about the production. Just to talk.”  
For the first time Erik felt sorry for Charles, interloper though he was. Charles took too long to answer. “I’d like that…” The newcomer skipped a breath, “and I’d like to talk about the production.”  
Erik watched them leave the theater. He did not know what to expect, but maybe—just maybe—this production would be a welcome surprise.


	3. Heretic Pride

Madame Giry entered from the wings, a letter in her outstretched hand. 

Most everyone on stage stopped where they were. A few people shot dirty looks at Christine. His Christine swallowed and blinked to keep from looking back. Always so gentle. She worried what others thought not because she cared about her reputation but because she hated making other people feel sad, or angry, or jealous. So kind.

Madame Giry stopped beside Charles. “For you, monsieur.”

He tore the letter open. “Who is Og?”

“He prefers ‘Opera Ghost.’” Christine said. Erik’s heart beat askew for a moment. She was trying to keep the peace between him and this boy. A sweet gesture, but futile.

“That may be, but he signed it ‘Og.’” Charles held up the letter.

“They are initials, monsieur.” Wise words from Giry senior, but the director had none of it.

“I don’t care. And—before we continue—let’s bring him in the conversation.” The entire stage cringed as Charles shouted to the house, “Hey! Writer! You don’t send me this shit, asshole!”

Piangi’s eyebrows hit his hair line. Madame Giry tightened her grip on her cane. He noticed Piangi and gestured to him. “You’re right. I should stick with writer. It’s worse.” He yelled again, “You don’t send me this shit, writer!” He spread his arms wide. The letter flapped in his left hand. “You have given your baby to me, and if I want to smash its brains against the nearest wall: I can do that!” He licked his lips. “In all seriousness kill your babies, it’s freeing.” There were a few gasps. He leapt to sooth them. “Not your literal babies, your metaphorical, artistic babies. Like…” He waved his arms again, “A favorite scene or that one chord in act four, which—“ He shouted to the open air, “—we are going to talk about, by the way!” 

One of the chorus girls whispered, “We’re all going to die.”

“You’re not gonna die, Josie. I’m gonna die.” Charles corrected her.

“No one is dying. The police will close us down for good.” Meg spoke quietly, calmly, perhaps with a tinge of her usual timidity. But beneath it all there was current of humor. Her speech was the one good thing in a trying scene. It was good to see his friend’s daughter coming out of her shell. Normally, in rehearsals, she’d only speak to Christine. He glanced to see Christine’s reaction. She was smiling. The prima-ballerina-cum-choreographer continued, “Perhaps you and our illustrious writer could speak after the rehearsal.”

“Yes.” Charles pocketed the letter. “Of course.” 

Rehearsal passed with no more outbursts. 

When it ended some people rushed for the exits. Others lingered, perhaps concerned for the madman in charge of the production, perhaps in hopes of seeing the madman’s demise. The crowd filtered out.

Charles spoke in hushed tones to Carlotta. Her characteristic pout faltered slightly. They murmured back and forth. Carlotta smiled. Charles bowed his head. Carlotta dipped hers and departed. Then it was just them. The director and the writer.

Erik made his way through the scaffolding to the stage itself. When he emerged Cushman had his back turned. He was reading a letter. It was not Erik’s.

“I am told I should apologize immediately.” The boy did not turn around when he spoke. Erik increasingly disliked his habit of speaking to nothingness and expecting Erik to hear him. “And I should. It was wrong to speak so harshly to you.” Erik crept closer. Cushman still did not see him. “I had one too many passive-aggressive notes today. You were just the straw that broke the camel’s back.” 

This close to him, Erik noticed that Cushman was impeccably shaved. It did not fit with his scruffy demeanor. It was the last thing Erik thought before he wrapped the rope around the boy’s neck.

Cushman gasped for breath and fought to fit his fingers under the noose. It was useless. Erik held it just tight enough. He wanted to speak to the boy about manners before he left the corpse to be discovered in the morning. “You dare to ignore my words.” Another cough. Cushman thrashed against his attacker. Erik yanked on the rope. “This is my opera house. This is my opera.” Cushman crumpled against Erik. His lungs still struggled for air. “Tell me why I should show you mercy?”

“Who else—is—.—going to—take on this—play?”

Erik let go of the rope and pushed the boy to the stage. Even on his knees, he could not support himself. He curled up on the boards and coughed.  
A minute passed and another. The other man finally caught his breath and flipped himself over to look up at Erik. “So.” He coughed again. “You position:” He fished Erik’s note out of his pocket, “’My script calls for a set fitting the station and fame of its protagonist. Disobey my instructions at your peril.’” Charles set the letter aside. “Alright. My position: this opera is about what’s underneath. It’s lust, and love, and connecting with other human beings in ways we never do in polite society. Juan represents that part of our nature—which is not inherently bad but it does threaten to consume us—so we use manners, and code, and expectations to control it. Sometimes too much. To me this story is about Doña Ana. It is about her stripping away all of that—inspired by, guided by Don Juan—and meeting, coming to terms with, accepting that part of human nature.” Charles grew more animated through out. He was on his knees, now. His hand flailed about, drawing pictures only he could see. “I want the set to reflect that construction of humanity. I want it half built. Pieces hinting what it would be if totally ordered and contained, but pieces falling apart, falling out, and bursting that illusion of bloodless control.” He met Erik’s eyes for the first time. “Also it’ll give the dancers so much to play with. Meg—Mademoiselle Giry—is talking to me about acrobatics, jumping around the levels. You should hear her.” 

Erik kept Charles waiting for his answer. But he did answer. “I give you permission to construct that vision.”

“Thank you.” Charles swallowed. “Do you want to sit down? Here.” He shed his coat and spread it over the dusty floor. “You’re dressed nicer than I am.”

“You wanted to speak to me about the chord in act four.” Erik sat. He knew the chord the other man meant. It was barely music, more a wall of discord.

“Yes. I love it. Breaks the rules, goes right to my sweet spot.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s a bit of a guide for me. It sums up all that stuff I was talking about. Sorry, to monologue, by the way.”

Erik gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “What did you say to The Great Toad?” Ever since Carlotta had so insulted Christine Erik had taken to giving her that title rather than her undeserved “prima donna.”

“I told her I’m excited to work with her and that I’m especially excited to see her in a supporting role.” Erik narrowed his eyes. Charles simply shrugged, “I think she’s going knock it out of the park. Despite what she thinks she’s not perfect for every leading role. But, despite what you think, she is experienced and talented. I want to see what she does with this.”

“I suppose you are entitled to your opinion.”

“Don’t give me shit, writer.” Charles grinned. It seemed life-threatening danger was a joke to him. Despite himself, Erik sniffed in amusement. Monsieur Cushman’s bravado was just stupid enough to be entertaining. There was a beat in the conversation, and then, “Do you want me to bring   
coffee in the morning?”

“What?”

“I hear you. When I’m here early. It’s you or some small rodents. Do you want me to bring an extra cup?”

“Speaking to you about Don Juan Triumphant would save me stationery.”

And that became the tradition. Charlie brought coffee in the morning. 

A week or so later Erik took to bringing tea in the evenings.   
\\\


	4. Autoclave

AUTOCLAVE

“Why aren’t you with Meg?”

Charlie frowned. “What?”

Erik began calling the other man ‘Charlie’ shortly after that first rehearsal. He prodded, “You’ve spent more evenings here than with her this week.” And a further poke, “Why did you do that?”

Charlie brushed him off, “Production meeting with my writer.”

Erik parried, “She is your choreographer.”

Charlie sighed and took a pull of Erik’s lapsang souchong, “If I miss a meeting with her I still get a good dance. If I miss a meeting with you I get letters and sets dropped on me.”

“Well.” Erik challenged him. He set his face, what of it could be seen beneath the mask, and said his peace. “Then let’s discuss the production.”

“Yes. Let’s. I’m satisfied. Rehearsals are chugging along. I’m looking forward to the first full run tomorrow.” Madame Giry’s major offering to Don Juan Triumphant was set to rehearse tomorrow. Erik awaited it with baited breathe as well. Madmae Giry’s offering promised to be the sore-thumb highlight of the extravaganza that was his opera. 

“Christine and Piangi have a few dicey scenes, but I’m confident they’ll get there.”

Charlie eyed him. Erik knew that Mr. Cushman brought up Christine to needle him. 

He did not rise to the bait. “I am satisfied as well… against all odds.” He whispered. And yet Charlie caught him.

Erik saw it in the wrinkles of his frown. “Excellent.” He may not have meant it, but the line showed around the lip of his tea cup. 

“Is it because of the letters?” Erik gambled on the question.

Charlie put his cup down. “You haven’t sent any letters.” And then one last stab at comedy: “Please, do not start sending letters.”

“The ones that do not come from me.” Charlie read them when he thought no one,—not even Erik—was watching.

Charlie chuckled without any trace of humor. “Do you know who Rosalie Sully is?”

“She wrote your debut opera.” Erik said. When Charlie offered nothing more, he added, “She is American, as well. A violinist originally, yes?”

Charlie let out a breath. The breath of that which has come and gone. “Well. If you know Tallahassee, then you know the whole story.”

He suspected—in the shadows of his dreams—he suspected that the operetta had more to do with reality than it let on. “Yet she still sends her love letters.”

Charlie laughed, “Yeah. Sure. For Rosalie and me, these are love letters.”

Erik pressed his advantage. “And you do not writer back. Do you?”

“C’mon, Og!” Charlie cried. “You saw the show—“

“I missed it, actually.” He refreshed Charlie’s cup with hot water. “I felt the brain-child of two junk mongers could come to no good.”

“Ouch.” Charles nodded to the phrasing. “What do you know?”

“It is a love story.”

“It is about two people who think they are in a love story.” Charlie corrected. “What they have: it isn’t love. Or… it’s twisted—no. It’s abusive. Simple as that.”

“And that,” Erik added, just to be clear, “Is what Ms. Sully and you had?”

“Yes.” Charlie nodded. “It feels like love. It feels like you never want it to end. And it feels like it never will.” At that point Erik willed him to stop. He did not. “Something in you always knows it is wrong. But that is part of the charm. It takes a wake up call.” He shuddered. “The day I read Tallahassee; that’s the day I bought a ticket for here.”

“What did you do to each other?” Erik looked at the other man, close to tears, and he remained stoic.

“I had insecurities. She manipulated—“ Charles over enunciated the word—“them. And I… I reacted with violence.” There was true shame in his voice. Charlie offered his lover’s letter to Erik. “She always said it better…” He trailed off.

And Erik read.

It spoke of the couple’s first night in Boston. They drank as they moved into the new house. Rosalie wrote that she offered Charlie more gin to make his voice rougher, ‘because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me.’ 

She wrote:  
‘I remember that we both knew exactly what this was, but we stuck to each other anyway. Like the living breathing words of the marriage vow. “In sickness and in health.” I remember sickness. We weren’t sick, we were sickness itself…’

Erik put the letter down.

“I don’t hate her for it.” Charlie blinked down at the piece of paper between them. “They are her way of healing.”

“And reading them?” Erik glared at Charlie, but the other man refused to raise his eyes. “What is that for you?”

Charlie laughed, dry and airy. Humorless. Dark. “Self torture.” He bit his lip. “Meg doesn’t deserve that. Me.” He sighed and set his features, settling into his body as a soldier sets a rifle to his shoulder. “In these relationships, the sour out weighs the sweet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.  
> The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.

**Author's Note:**

> All profit and rights go to the estate of Gaston Leroux. Also to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose musical introduced me to this story.  
> The story is named for the album that outlines its arc: "Heretic Pride" by the Mountain Goats. "Tallahassee" is also an album of theirs, so if you would like to listen to the story of "the alpha couple" (they are called so by the fandom) please do look it up on youtube and consider buying the album.


End file.
